


Chanel

by Kim_Kardashian



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexuality, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nostalgia, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 05:24:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11306562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kim_Kardashian/pseuds/Kim_Kardashian
Summary: If Eren’s anus had vocal cords, it would yell at Jean for existing. But it can’t, and in retrospect, he would be a bit terrified if his anus could speak.





	Chanel

**Author's Note:**

> There is recreational drug use in case that's not to your liking. This is written to celebrate Pride, FYI.

14

If Eren’s anus had vocal cords, it would yell at Jean for existing. But it can’t, and in retrospect, he would be a bit terrified if his anus could speak. What it would say, he didn’t want to know. But right now, he wanted to terminate his own existence, be on his knees and wait for death, suck its dick if it meant a peaceful afterlife. Apologize for squeezing Sasha’s boobs in seventh grade among many other things.

Tattered leaves crunched underneath his Nike’s, his breathing haggard and borderline wheeze territory.

 _Mindovermattermindovermatter_. He wanted to fucking die. The cramp was getting worse, but he was first place. Bound to qualify for sectionals, and Eren would not risk it for momentary weakness. All those mile repeats and hill exercises prepared him for this, which was why he broke his number one rule and regretted it the moment he did.

He looked back.

 _Never look back_ , Levi said. _It only spikes your adrenaline and your body goes fucking nuts_. He swallowed the knot of saliva in his throat, and hacked it back up, spitting it to the side. Jean never caught up, he had always been a minute and a half faster. He picked up the pace, ignoring Jean’s graveled run behind him. “You’re not supposed to look back, dumbass!”

“Shut the fuck up!” The burn in his thighs and chest numbed as he zeroed in on the state official at the finish line. Jean’s labored breathing was too close, but he pushed his knees up, locked his elbows and sprinted even though every cell in his body yelled ‘zoo wee mama!’

“Nineteen forty-two! Nineteen forty-four!”

He wished his anus could scream.

-

18

Eren joined the cross country team his freshman year, the day after he smoked pot for the first time. Armin wasn’t there to protest or advise him about the dangers of kush, but fuck being the sober one in the room. Jean had passed him the bowl of potato salad without comment.

There were many facts about Jean that swam in his head from time to time, and even though they always called each other out on their daddy issues, they always ended up doing the same thing.

“I’d fuck Ymir,” Jean said, “but only with Christa’s blessing.”

“I think she’d do the fucking if we’re being honest.”

“A strap-on, yeah, I don’t think I’d mind. I could take it.”

Those were their Pierce the Veil days, angry Kellin Quinn sessions, a Bring Me the Horizon era long forgotten and tucked away along with their Aeropostale v-necks. Jean didn’t fuck Ymir, but he did fuck Mina, a sweet and sensible girl who somehow managed to bypass his clumsily contained rage and shitty flaws. Flaws like posting “gain” pics and sharing “What Naruto Character Are You?” quizzes on Facebook. That was junior prom though, and why Eren thought about this, well it didn’t help that he bought the yearbook every year. Flipped through it and skimmed the thick waxy pages. Memories of not only high school, but elementary school swam through, before his age hit the double digits.

Hiking trips with his family, Jean and Armin winning the robotics competition. Walks in Central Park with his entire class. It all culminated to a finish line he chased his entire life, one that cross country never offered. His high school career was mediocre at best, at least in comparison to middle school. He didn’t know why he was so angry, so restless, and the one of the only outlets he had besides running was his violin. Jean had always been in his periphery, always afloat in the tumultuous waves of his life, always there to offer a meme or shitty comeback. Opinions on French cinema and Stephen King. Mikasa and Armin, their entire circle of friends actually, held them together, in constant motion. Even now.

“Your finger is too high,” Eren said. He slipped Jean’s finger down. “Play the note again.”

“Fuck off. First violin sucks.” _Biggest Asshole With Smallest Cock_ , a perfect superlative for Jeannie here.

“I’ll shove your bow up your ass.”

“I’ll shove Connie’s cello up your ass.”

First period orchestra was brutal, and with graduation looming over, it was their job to teach the juniors how to play Pomp and Circumstance. “Eighth measure now, y’all. Eighth measure. Not that fucking hard. Downbow, B,” Eren yelled, banging the stand. Jean led the second violins, the timing perfect for fucking once. They all looked relieved when Eren had no mistakes to pick at. His glasses slipped down and he couldn’t help but look at the clock, waiting for it to tick closer to twelve. Timing proved to be everything, especially when his braces would be removed the day before senior pictures. He could smile without cringing.

-

19

The rain roared and reared itself ferociously, the sound of sirens accompanying them tonight. Eren couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every conversation today fumbled in his mind, even the shitty Starbucks frap failed to sate him. He put his phone on Do Not Disturb, biting back the guilt of thirty-two unread texts. His escapist and avoidant behavior soured everything, he knew that, but what other choice did he have when Jean took one glance at him and pulled him into the room. Jean, in his faded Hollister shirt and long Adidas socks. Freckles dark as fuck, nose peeling. Eren was hooked, any sense of familiarity a godsend. He knew no one on this campus, that and his garbage personality into the mix made a wicked case of self-isolation. Maybe he looked desperate. I-eat-Taco-Bell-at-three-AM desperate.

Jean’s long and thin finger held the ends of the wrapper carefully, his tongue a precise line on its edges. Every time Jean rolled for them, Eren marveled at how beautiful it looked. He had stuffed the door’s gap with a big fat towel and opened the windows. He knew Jean’s dorm like it was his own. “I wish I understood calc like I do this.”

“Put that on your resume. ‘Can roll a mean blunt. Suck dick better than your girl’.”

“It helps that I sell it.”

That was news. “You do?”

Jean pressed his lips together, his eyebrow twitched and waggled. “Tuition isn’t cheap. Did you think working at Walmart paid for this shit?” He gestured to the whole room. Stacked works by Jane Austen, endless boxes of cereal, and silver Beats headphones. “We can’t all be smart fucks with scholarships like you.”

“You’re not fucking dumb though.”

“Oh, I’m not. I didn’t say that,” Jean said with a dry laugh. He smoothed the joint’s tip and flicked the blue lighter. They looked like those lesbian indie movies, where he was splayed all over Jean’s bed, eyes searching for something but nothing really, Jean’s fixation making him horny. Except Jean was smart and not easily swayed like Armin. Not tonight at least. So _Blue Velvet_ sensual. “You know why I pulled you in here?” His voice dipped lower, smoke streaming from his nostrils. “You looked fucked. And I thought about your hands.” Eren let Jean hold them. How fucking touch-starved was he to let this happen? Jean, who still listens to Fall Out Boy unironically. “I liked watching you play. Mozart’s stuff, mostly.”

“I don’t play anymore.”

“Yeah, and for once you’re not with Armin and Mikasa. Things change.” He hated that. Hated Jean for bringing it up, but also had little to say about the matter. Jean passed him the joint and opened Spotify. “Why did you decide to come to this school?”

Eren shoved his shoes off and grabbed a pillow. It was two AM, and sleeping over turned out to be the only path tonight. He ignored the bitter vanilla taste of the wrapper. “I just needed change.” Armin and Mikasa were a forty-minute train ride, closer to Pennsylvania than the Jersey shore.

“I need Subway.”

Eren logged into his Netflix, no hesitation. Futurama was perfect. The haze his mind ventured to made his chest flutter, the urge to grin difficult to fight. “You have a blackhead on your nose.”

Jean coughed. “Thanks, I really needed-“

“C’mere, horsey. Let Mama Eren take care of it.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m chiseled.” Eren ignored him and concentrated on the center of the pimple, rubbing the filth on Jean’s palm. His nail’s indentations on Jean’s skin made him guilty and he wondered why Jean let him touch his face. A long pause. “I fucked someone on this bed.”

He cocked a brow. “Who?”

“Some sorority girl. I can’t stop thinking about her tits.”

“Christ.”

-

22

He unhooked her bra, hand on the curve of her back. She was gorgeous, eyes soul-piercing, moaning into the kiss, his dick pulsating every time he breathed in her Victoria Secret perfume. Condom in hand, he fondled her ass as she wrapped her legs around his waist, a little too tight. “You’re taking long.” Her Russian accent was hot, he didn’t even complain when her arms began to choke him as she held on every time he bucked. Missionary wasn’t his thing, but neither was having sex with random strangers.

“You—are driving—me crazy. Y’know that right?”

Annie locked her stare, trapping him as he came, hard. “I should say the feeling is mutual.” She looked primal as she eyed him down. “Let me take care of you,” she said, the way her cheeks hollowed out only made him want to know her more. God, she was incredible. He didn’t even think twice when it was his turn to return the favor. Jean not being home for another few hours was a bonus.

It turned out to be a problem. Meeting her was a tragedy. Annie would graduate this semester, and he was two years younger than her. Her plans consisted of moving to the City to work at this firm, and his plans were to graduate next year, hit up grad school. Their paths were clearly not going to converge and weld into one. The day she left, tears pricked his eyes and Jean dragged him to Point Pleasant. “You look wrecked.” Jean’s conditioned, bleached hair and hardened jaw made him wonder why time passed by without his permission. Who was he to speak, when his own hair reached his shoulders, some of it pulled into a bun. His throat felt heavy, and he flipped through the yellowed pages of his book. “You’re reading poetry again. That’s how you know,” Jean crooned obnoxiously, one hand on the wheel, the other digging into the bag of Chick-Fil-A.

“It’s Merwin, you cock.”

“It’s Merwin, you cock,” Jean mimicked. “Look at you. Read me your fav. I’m tired of Kid Cudi.”

He flipped through the pages again, looking out the window. Rush hour in Jersey City made him want to rot with a dildo in his butthole. “You should put some Gorillaz then.” This impatience that coursed through him was an itch he couldn’t scratch, his mind wandered to all sorts of territories he abhorred, and Jean always looked so put-together, so Barbie’s Ken he wondered if it was an elaborate act. All this twisted pining for a girl, a woman, he was never going to see again. He fiddled with his glasses, and let Jean pat his shoulder in a way that screamed homoerotic reassurances.

The air in Point Pleasant beach was crisp, cleansing. The screams of children in the distance made him wonder when it was he who screamed, not because he was upset, but because life overstuffed him with joy. When Carla’s arms were the arms he only longed for, no one else’s, and all vexations disappeared with the promise of ice cream and mundane trips to the park. Jean blended well in the background, with his plain white t-shirt and whitewashed jeans, dirty old Converse. His sleeve of tattoos gave no indication that he was bound to be a social worker.

 _“Eren!”_ Armin’s voice still belted through FaceTime. _“Jean says you’re down, like Kurt Cobain down.”_

He grinned. “Not that sad. Just a bit lost. Annie was...great.” He pointed the camera at the crashing waves. “Jean says the ocean makes him feel gay.”

“I didn’t say that, you shit.”

Armin told them about his date with this cute girl he met in chem, and Mikasa’s recent obsession with Outlast. There was a lot going on campus, they barely had time to have a random rendezvous at the beach, much less a FaceTime conversation. _“But I think we’ll go there in two weeks. See how you studs are doing.”_

The pile of seashell fragments looked impressive as the seagulls hovered nearby, even if the sea foam looked gross. “We’re snazzy,” Jean said, grin crooked. “Babysitting Jaeger seems to be a full-time job.”

“Suck my dick.”

“I will. Not today though.”

Armin choked and cut the call.

“Fuck, he’s not picking up.”

 They wheezed in laughter, Armin’s nunnery never got old. He had the same bowl haircut for a decade, and to have Jean pathetically push him toward overpriced fried Oreos shifted something inside him. He had no idea why Jean was here of all places, where he could be somewhere else having a good time with some hot preppy bitch. But he didn’t question it, and he kept that to himself.

Of course with all break-ups, comes something else. Aimlessness for one thing, but raw edges to beginnings. It pissed him off when Jean brought girls to their apartment, for some odd reason. They were too noisy, too invasive. Sometimes their beauty didn’t match their personality. At least that’s what he told Jean. But it was better to see Jean’s love life unroll in real time, so he could keep an eye on everything. Make sure no unwanted pregnancies happened.

He glanced at the seashell fragments they left on the table after their trip. They never placed them somewhere safe, and here they remained, rooted in the same place three months later. “Tell Bitch to keep her hands off my coconut water. Off limits.”

Jean snorted, tugging his boxers up. “Her name’s Hitch.”

“And she’s a bitch. For touching my coconut water.”

“Don’t be butthurt.”

He chewed on his PB&J. “About what exactly?” It was too early for this, and why he was baiting Jean, he had no idea.

“You know. You’re…a bachelor.”

The peanut butter was too cold, suddenly, and the bread had flecks of mold. “Yeah? I’m dying to get some herpes.” It’s not that he _was_ butthurt, and so _what_ if he was? He had something meaningful and romantic at some point, he had every right to be a piece of shit and mourn it. So he did take action. Not in getting herpes. But in bringing girls over, cute girls, hot girls (there was a difference). Those little words nagged his porn-laden head. A bachelor on the east coast, but his awkwardness made it hard to get a conversation going, much less a connection. Being a fuckboy proved to be impossible, and then it was Jean complaining. The odd satisfaction made him seem sleazy, petty. But he’s in his twenties, his prime, so it didn’t matter. He waxed his ass once.

“Tell what’s-her-face to stop leaving her panties. It was hot at first, but this isn’t _Orange is the New Black_.” Jean pointed to the hot pink lacy thong strewn lewdly on the chair.

“She’s a hot enchilada. Her name’s Petra.”

“Tell Petra it’s petrifying when she leaves her panties.” He choked, but did as he was told. Petra only dissolved into hysterical giggles two weeks later, but also obliged. It was all going well. Academically, personally, and everything in between. His life and its torn seams were mended, and he had the money to treat Jean with random trips to Qdoba, buy lives when playing Candy Crush.

[ **annie** ]: hey

[ **annie** ]: just wanted to talk

It’s been months, and his heart still thudded in his chest madly like the first time he saw her leave. Except ache also seeped in there, and he reread the messages to make sure it wasn’t a hallucination. The monkey emoji next to her name softened the blow, but the initial shock only replaced itself with dread.

_Why?_

It was a simple question.

[ **annie** ]: ive been thinking about you and everything, my life is going well. i wish things were different and that we were friends at least. closure is v important to me, so if you want to meet up, i live in Brooklyn or whatever

Or whatever. Or whatever! What the fuck did that mean?

She shared her location with him. He could block her, he could simply say ‘Fuck you.’ and move on, make her a distant bittersweet memory. It’s as if she wanted to be an anchor in his life, stop his boat from sailing. But he did what he knew was best.

He took the train to New York, the subway to Brooklyn. Daylight and the rush of crowds jolted him, he wasn’t from here, not from the city. How Annie could stomach this just spat out the differences between them. The sea of faces made him the protagonist of some low-budget thriller, and yet, he had no desire to look.

A text from Jean brought him clarity about the situation and the decision. This was a mistake.

[ **chiseled** ]: whre are uu ???

Then a phone call. Of course. Jean never waited more than a minute for a reply. His finger hovered over the green button. “Hey, where are you? I have some spicy shit to tell you.”

He swallowed. A car honked at him for standing in the middle of the street. “I’m in Brooklyn.”

“What the hell are you there for?”

“Annie texted me.”

Jean’s pause made him nervous, he could practically feel the judgement oozing from the speaker. This was stupid. He should’ve cut the call. “Annie?” Jean repeated. “You’re in _Brooklyn_ to see _Annie_?” Now that was layered with an acidic “what the fuck”. “I’m in Long Branch, so call me later then.”

Jean hung up. This was a mistake, he was so fucking stupid. What the hell was he thinking, he just left the dragon’s den and now he’s willingly walking toward it again. Long Branch. He’ll go to Long Branch then. When his parents were young and their hips quite strong, they used to watch him collect shells in a purple bucket. Wildwood was great, but expensive too. Just like any tourist-y beach boardwalk. The endless flickering of the streetlights urged him to hurry, he had to see Jean.

He wondered what Armin and Mikasa were up to. They didn’t know how he scraped rock bottom in heartbreak, and how he almost went back in the pit again. He knew life always had loose ends, nothing ever healed quite perfectly, and closure didn’t necessarily guarantee satisfactory happiness. Annie disappearing was for the best, and he had to let it be. Let it bury itself and burn.

He pulled his jacket closer to his stomach, noting the living room lamp with relief. Jean was awake, and definitely _not_ in Long Branch. The pack of cigarettes jostled with every step, his rusted key chain jangled when he shoved the door open.

Jean’s eyes had the reddest veins he’s ever seen, his freckles looked darker on his blotchy skin, the definition of hyperpigmentation. “Were you crying? Or are you high?”

“Both,” Jean said bleakly, pointing to the brownie on the coffee table. “I think I need something in my system for my ridiculous emotions. I feel too much, I think.” Eren didn’t want to know what “this shit” was. Jean’s nose twitched, the cuff of his jean jacket spurted sand every time he flicked the lighter. This is what happens when you listen to Fall Out Boy unironically.

“I don’t. You’re fucking weak. Like a cheese doodle.” Memories, mostly of Jean using Ymir’s Hello Kitty bong always brought nostalgia, he ran on nostalgia, that was his fuel. The couch was so fucking old, and its springs squeaked when he sat down. Without thinking about it, his hand grazed over Jean’s stubble, the stapler scar on his chin. So many times he’s seen this face with all sorts of expressions, all the verbal garbage spilling from his meme whore mouth, and not once was he severely tempted to punch the utter shit out of him like this very instant. But he didn’t, and he let Jean pull the sides of his face and press their mouths together with a whimpered sigh. The taste of Fireball and tootsie roll chocolate wasn’t the best, but neither was this horrible twist in his gut that screamed ‘yes yes yes’ like he had nothing better to do. Jean’s breath felt hot on his neck, his hair was fisted loose, and the guttural sounds spirited the fire in his chest.

Jean palmed him, and he _keened_. Petra never did this, Petra never teased him or made him beg for it, made him want to be fucked senseless that he forgot everything but the sensation of _yes_. Gratification was his weakness, Jean knew how to handle him and he hated it. “Christ, _wait_ ,” he gasped, but Jean only slipped his hands in his pants, and he bucked forward, his hands scraping the fake leather. He closed his eyes and stilled, letting all tension escape his body. Jean didn’t stop until he came in his jeans, letting his hand stay there, refusing to look elsewhere.

“I waited so fucking long to do that.”     

“Me too.” Fuck. It felt gross now.

“Why did you some back?”

“You were in Long Branch.”

“So?”

“Hitch Bitch lives there. I didn’t want you to see her.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a while, until Jean let Amy Winehouse cleanse their souls. It wasn’t a particularly terrible night, and Eren didn’t dare break what they had. After all, it was new, even if it has been building up for years.

“So like, am I getting a handjob?”

Eren just looked at him. “We have to do laundry.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is what Solange and Frank Ocean’s entire discography does to me. By no means is this glorification of recreational drug use or destructive behavior. Just putting it out there.


End file.
